To Be a Slytherin
by Wilania
Summary: Draco determines to bring the Golden Trio down, and he has a master plan. This is not a romance.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer:  Harry Potter and his magical world belong to J.K. Rowling. I merely have the huge, egotistical idea that I know what I'm doing with her characters. It's fun to let my imagination roam. Yippee!

A/N:   Hugeo thankso to my nonexistent betas, kalariah & Alice E. White. Maybe next time, you guys will actually help me out here! 

If any of the readers want to become a beta for me, you're more than welcome! I have a couple other chapters written, so I could e-mail them to you to preview. 

Enjoy!

The Slytherins Lose—Again 

Draco Malfoy scowled into his cereal. The Slytherin table was talking animatedly around him, not noticing his unusual silence, for once. He was surprised that Pansy wasn't tugging at his arm, chattering stupidly into his ear. The Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match was today, and most of his housemates were helping the Quidditch players come up with even nastier ways to play dirty without being seen by the eagle eyes of Madam Hooch. Draco usually took an active part in these discussions, being the Slytherin Seeker, but he was distracted today.  

He had gotten out of bed feeling very grumpy, and he knew why. He was about to look like a fool in front of the whole school. Again. Good as he was, that fool Potter was always one step ahead of him. It didn't help that the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs always supported Gryffindor in these matches, their mutual dislike of Slytherin banding them together for the length of the match at least. 

Malfoy glared over at the Gryffindor table, reserving his iciest stares for Potter and his little fan club. The prats! The Weasley twits (as Draco called the twins) were ALREADY celebrating with Potter as if they had won yet ANOTHER match against Slytherin without even trying. Ron was patting Potter on the back, assuring him as he always did that he was the best. Potter choked on his pumpkin juice, and tried to smile as his best friend delivered yet another energetic blow to his back. Sickening. 

But worst of all was the Weasley girl, Ginny. She sat between the Mudblood Granger and Dean Thomas. Her eyes were riveted to Potter's face adoringly. She had every confidence in him. She KNEW he would win yet another stunning victory for the Gryffindors. There was no doubt in her mind—or face (thought Draco snidely) that Potter was her hero. Her bright face was turned up to his—in the perfect position for a kiss, Draco reflected. There was a quiet resignation in her features, as if she knew that he would never notice her, but she would be glad to stay in his shadow forever, ready for the day when a miracle happened and he needed her—   

Draco slammed his glass of pumpkin juice down—a little harder than necessary—and  tried not to laugh as he saw Crabbe and Goyle's futile efforts to wipe the juice off their robes. They made good bodyguards after all, and it would not do to offend them, particularly before a match, where the Slytherin team could only expect support from their housemates. 

Well, he, Draco Malfoy, would show them. He didn't know how he was going to do it, but that didn't matter at the moment. What mattered was the look on the Weasley girl's face when Slytherin won the Quidditch cup. Because of course if—no, WHEN, Draco reminded himself, when they beat Gryffindor, the Quidditch cup was as good as theirs. For some reason, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were never much competition. They would be flattened within the first fifteen minutes of the game, as they usually were. Then victory, oh sweet victory. He could hardly wait to get onto the field and show them what Draco Malfoy was really made of. Everyone who laughed at him before was going to be sorry. 

The sun was shining brilliantly that September morning, and Draco was nearly blinded by it when he and his teammates flew out onto the Quidditch pitch. Draco pulled his broomstick up above the rest of the players, still assembling below. A cool breeze tickled his face, and he allowed himself a small smirk. He had enchanted his hair to stay in place, of course. Nothing must upset the carefully arranged coif. At the end of the match, when Gryffindor crawled home in defeat, he had no intention of looking like Potter, with his hair sticking up in every direction. He snorted in disgust. Potter _was_ good; even Draco Malfoy had to admit that, but Draco was every inch as good, if not—_better. _

Below Draco and Potter, the Slytherin and Gryffindor teams had assumed their positions, and Madam Hooch had already released the Snitch. Draco had to seriously hold himself in check; he knew the game didn't really start until the Quaffle was released, but the Snitch had flown right by him! Maybe that was a good sign, an omen of how the game would go—he grabbed his thoughts suddenly, and stopped daydreaming about victory. It was not for nothing that he, Draco Malfoy had been put into Slytherin. He focused himself completely on the goal—finding the Snitch before Potter, and wiping that self-satisfied smirk off his enemy's face. 

Then the Quaffle was released, and the game began.

Draco was aware that down below, his teammates were giving Gryffindor even more trouble than usual, but their plans to avoid Madam Hooch had failed, as Draco had expected they would. Did they really expect her to not to see when someone zoomed their broomstick right into Angelina, knocking her off her broom? Amazingly, the hardheaded girl had not been knocked unconscious by the fall, and insisted on returning to the game. Draco shrugged: it was none of his concern. That was why he loved being the seeker. He didn't have to get involved in all the petty fouls and pushing and shoving that went on below him. He preferred not to mingle too closely with people who did not possess the same social standing as he.

Suddenly, a flash of gold caught Draco's eye. The Snitch! He ducked, out of instinct. Both Potter and the Bludgers tended to follow the Snitch around. A split second later, Harry and two Bludgers whizzed overhead. Draco righted himself, and took off in pursuit. He wasn't far behind Potter, and he urged some more speed from his Firebolt III, which was vastly superior to his rival's broom. Not far now. He could see the golden ball glinting in the sunlight, and he could taste victory just around the corner. If only that dratted Potter would move out of the way! 

Draco ground his teeth in frustration. Potter might be a Gryffindor, but when it came to Quidditch, he was almost more Slytherin than Draco himself. Almost. He focused completely on the goal, willing to take any risk to come out on top. But Potter always played fair. A true Slytherin would do anything to get ahead, and in a moment of pure rage, Draco did. He had waited for Potter to move long enough. He pushed his broomstick forward even faster- and found himself riding beside Harry at top speed, the wind almost blowing them both off their broomsticks. Potter had that determined look in his eye, and was actually reaching out his hand to catch the Snitch. In the tiny millisecond before he caught it, Draco turned his broomstick and rammed himself straight into the Gryffindor seeker's side, then pulled away to watch the spectacle. 

By some miracle, Madam Hooch didn't see him; being too occupied with keeping the other players from killing each other. 

Potter's reflexes were quick. He was surprised by the blow, and was almost knocked off his broom, but he recovered, and wheeled around, searching for the Snitch again. But the impact had thrown him way off course, and it was too late. Draco was already reaching out his hand for the Snitch. He was so close, he could hear the tiny little wings of the Snitch beating furiously. Then his hand was so close, that one wing brushed against his skin, feather light. Draco thought his heart would fly right out of his mouth and join the Snitch. He leaned forward to grab his victory—but the ball was gone. 

It had suddenly turned and was whizzing off in another direction—straight towards Potter. Draco cursed, and took off in pursuit, but he was too late. A few seconds later, the game was over. Merlin! He had been so close. He growled savagely and spat, not caring if it hit anybody walking below. It was as if the stupid ball actually _liked Potter, and didn't want to be caught by anyone else. How could he compete against that? _

Maybe he could nastily suggest that Potter had enchanted the Snitch. Yes, that was it. Potter had enchanted the Snitch to fly straight to his hand—not right away of course, since that would be too obvious. 

He smirked, but his smile faded as he realized that no one would take him seriously. Everyone _loved Potter; they just couldn't get enough of their hero. He never did anything bad, oh no! So what to do then? He flew down to the grass and began another session of pretending he didn't care that the entire Slytherin house looked like fools, especially the Slytherin Seeker. He was quite good at it, but pretending he didn't care irked him, since he __did care. Just once! WHY couldn't he win just once? Was it too much to ask? There had to be a way. And he would find it. _

Draco almost laughed aloud as a sudden inspiration came to him. It was too easy. Whistling to himself, he walked off the Quidditch pitch and went straight to the showers in the Slytherin dungeons. Under the hot streams of water, he relaxed and reviewed his plan to beat Potter. It was so simple that he almost worried that it really was _too_ easy, but he quickly dismissed the idea. The precious little Gryffindors wouldn't suspect a thing. He would begin phase one in Transfiguration tomorrow afternoon.


	2. Phase One

Disclaimer: As usual, nothing's mine. There are no original (invented by me) characters in this chapter, but you may be seeing some further down the road!

A/N: Thanks again to my betas, kalariah and alice.E.White, who were NOT there for me. I did the best I could on my own, and if you like it, please let me know. I appreciate comments and suggestions.

Phase One

Draco walked to Transfiguration class, which the Slytherins shared with Gryffindor this year. His steps slowed as he reached the classroom door, and he peered expectantly around the corner, to be sure no one else was there. Then he slipped inside. So far, so good. He had come to class ten minutes early so he could begin his plan before the nosy Gryffindors came around. He had an image to maintain, after all. He walked up to Professor McGonagall's desk, hoping she wouldn't see through him. 

"Professor McGonagall?" he said in his sweetest voice.

Minerva looked up from her essays to see Draco Malfoy standing in front of her. He had an eager expression on his narrow face, and his perfectly coifed blond hair was even more perfectly arranged than usual—if such a thing was possible, she thought wryly. She didn't like his look. What was he up to? she wondered, but instantly rebuked herself. Just because he was a Slytherin was no reason to judge him before she heard what he had to say. 

"How can I help you, Mr. Malfoy?" she inquired politely.

Draco watched varying emotions play across the Professor's face. When she finally appeared to accept him, he let out the breath he had been unconsciously holding. He put on his most studious look, and forced himself not to pat down his hair one more time. 

"I was wondering if I could get some tutoring in this class. My recent transfigurations haven't been _perfect_ lately, and I think I could use the help—" he trailed off expectantly, looking artfully down at his hands, as if embarrassed. He knew she couldn't refuse him. Professor McGonagall firmly believed in each student reaching their full potential, and was eager to help anyone who wanted to learn more. He was not disappointed.

"Your grades in this class have been fair," she began. "You are actually one of my best students." The disappointed look on his face—could it have been calculated? No, surely not! She went on, ignoring a growing feeling of unease. "However, if you feel that you require more than what I can offer you in class, by all means, pair up with one of your friends, and I can give you some extra credit work to study."

This was not the answer Draco expected, but he hid his disappointment well, and set about correcting the situation. 

"Ah, about that, Professor…" he said uncertainly. "I don't wish to criticize my housemates' abilities, but I feel that they cannot teach me anything I do not know. In fact, I do not know of anyone in my house who could help me." That ought to do it, he thought. Just give her a few minutes, and she'll recommend me to her star pupil.

"Very well, Mr. Malfoy. If your housemates cannot help you, there is certainly someone in Gryffindor who can," said the Professor. "I'll speak with Miss Granger about your request, and give you her reply by tomorrow. I cannot guarantee that she'll take kindly to your request, you understand." This last she added, against her better judgement. She knew that Hermione loved teaching almost as much as she did—but a Slytherin? Well, only time and Hermione herself could answer that.

Draco went to his seat-almost jubilant. Tomorrow evening he would be studying with Granger! Not that the thought of the Mudblood's know-it-all company was so enjoyable, but he would be in a perfect position to cause some real damage to Potter. He had been so clever about it, too, he reflected. There was no way she could refuse. Not after she found the note in her desk. He could just imagine her reading it now…..

"Dear Miss Granger,

"You are one of the smartest students I know—maybe the smartest, even. 

If you're so smart, then perhaps you'll take a piece of advice—continue 

sucking up to McGonagall. You never know how you might be rewarded

for your scholastic efforts. 

Quidditch is a dangerous sport.

Sincerely, 

An admirer

Draco chuckled softly to himself. She would never suspect him—she would be too busy crowing to Weasley that she had an admirer. Granger was always trying to make Weasley jealous. It worked, too. Draco himself could not imagine what Weasley saw in bushy-haired, buck teethed Granger. She was too bossy for his taste. The Weasley girl on the other hand…for one second he pictured waves of fiery hair, surrounding a pale, freckled face like a cloud of flames. 

Wait a minute. What was he thinking? Weasley was pretty; there was no denying that. But even the fact that she was a pureblood would not convince his that she was a quality person. Draco could just picture his father's face when he casually mentioned that he was dating a Weasley. He would probably throw a fit of icy rage, and ask Draco what he had done with his son. A true Malfoy would never forget that social status, good looks, and money were almost as important as pure wizarding blood.

"Mr. Malfoy, are you still with us?" Professor McGonagall's strident tones interrupted his train of thought. 

"Yes, Professor," he responded, resisting the urge to scrunch down into his seat like a child caught in mischief. He _never_ allowed his thoughts to wander like this in class! Draco was in fact very studious, second only to the annoying Mudblood. He was briefly grateful that his father had taught him the impassive charm early in life. That way, no one would ever suspect that he was embarrassed. 

"Then please explain to the class the theory behind Transfiguring a quill into parchment, and back again." Draco could have sworn he saw a twinkle in the Professor's eye.

If she was trying to embarrass him for his inattention, she had miscalculated. This was one thing he was particularly good at, and the whole class would know when he was through.

He put on his most pompous air because it would annoy the Gryffindors, and began lecturing. He left no detail out, no matter how small and ended his beautiful soliloquy by demonstrating. The class was appropriately impressed, even the Gryffindors, although they tried their best to look nonchalant. Gryffindors were so transparent! It was quite amusing. McGonagall was forced to award ten points to Slytherin, and the Potty trio looked positively mutinous, especially the freckle-faced Weasel.

After class, Draco and his two bodyguards headed down the stairs to the great hall. They had an hour before their next class, and it was their custom to have a snack before Potions. Well, Crabbe and Goyle usually snacked (eating Draco's share too), and Draco would keep his father happy by using this time to talk to Pansy. Pansy's family was one of the oldest wizarding families (even older than the Malfoys, but not as wealthy), and Lucius had insisted on keeping friendly contact between them.

Draco suspected that his father privately didn't care much about purging the world of mudbloods and muggles—that had always been Voldemort's plan. There were those sick Death Eaters who hated every muggle ever born, but he thought Lucius Malfoy wasn't one of them. In fact, he knew of at least one Mudblood that his father had secret business connections with. He had been to their house several times over the last summer holiday, and always with the strongest secrecy spells. They were so thick Draco could almost see them, hovering over Malfoy Manor the whole time the visitor had been there and for an entire week after he left. 

If only his father knew how disgusting Pansy was. Even more repulsive was the fact that she openly adored Draco. If he let her, she would be worse than the Weasley girl was with Potter. But he was always careful to talk to her just enough to keep her happy, but not enough to give her ideas. They had attended the Yule Ball together, mainly because it was easier than asking someone he really liked. Like the Weasley girl. Not that he _wanted _her. She was pretty, but he didn't think of Ginny like Weasley thought of Hermione. He merely thought it might be refreshing to spend time in the company of someone who was even slightly intelligent. 

The Weasley family was one of Dumbledore's strongest supporters, and Draco knew that to attend a dance with one would be fraternizing with the enemy. Lucius knew that Voldemort hated Muggle-lovers almost as much as Muggles themselves. His father was a bloody coward. Not to mention the fact that Lucius himself harbored a particularly intense hatred toward Arthur Weasley and all of his brats. Draco didn't know why; his father refused to canvas that particular subject with him.

But wasn't Draco himself a coward? He might be fascinated by the Dark Arts (illicit, dangerous things always appealed to him), but he could never understand Voldemort's vendetta against mudbloods and muggles. _Yet you parade around the school, giving everyone the impression that you can hardly wait to receive the Dark Mark. If you don't like what Voldemort's doing, then take a stand against him, instead of hiding in shadows, putting on the biggest act—_shut up, he told his conscience firmly. I want to stay alive.


	3. The Letter

A/N: Here you are, mates. A nice long chapter to keep you busy after your loooong wait (sorry). Mounting suspense! Is Miss Granger clever enough to figure out Malfoy's evil plan? Read for yourself and review, or Hermione will turn you into a toad. Heh-heh.

The Letter

Hermione Granger frowned, unable to put a finger on what was bothering her. Harry was actually okay for once, still exulting with the rest of Gryffindor about their victory against the Slytherins. Hermione marveled that the novelty of beating Slytherin had still not worn off for the enthusiastic players (and the rest of their house). 

Malfoy had long since proven that while he might be an ace on a broomstick (the Firebolt III, bought especially for the team's Seeker by Lucius Malfoy), he didn't have the eye of a seeker. The rest of the Slytherin team relied mainly on putting the other team's players out of commission. Fortunately for Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw, Madam Hooch had the eyes of an eagle. Few fouls went unnoticed by her.

She sighed. At least Gryffindor's victory had taken Harry's mind from Voldemort's return for a little while. She hated seeing him so depressed. His depression stemmed from many things, including his feelings of guilt over the events of last year, especially Cedric's death. He tried valiantly to hide his remorse, since he didn't want to burden his friends. Didn't he know that they _wanted_ to be burdened with his troubles? 

But no, Hermione was not too worried about Harry tonight. Her other best friend Ron Weasley was also doing well, buoyed up by the euphoria that always came along with showing up that stupid prat Malfoy. It was something they never tired of. Hermione's two best friends were always spoiling for a fight, and Malfoy gave them plenty of opportunities. Hermione had hissed, "ignore them, ignore them," in their ears so many times, she had lost count. She also suspected they tuned her out deliberately. Lately, she had resorted to more practical means of restraining them.

These days, when Harry or Ron (it was usually Ron) tried to lunge at Malfoy, she just grabbed his arms and held him back. Harry was pretty manageable, and actually looked sheepish when Hermione pulled him back from smashing Malfoy's face in, but Ron was a different story. 

It hadn't escaped Hermione's notice that while most of Malfoy's insults to Ron were directed at his family, the ones that really got him going had nothing to do with his family. Ron was always hardest to hold back when Malfoy made his usual snide comments about Mudbloods. For some reason, those particular insults annoyed Ron the most, turning him into a very angry, deadly monster.

In fact, his behavior reminded Hermione of a she-bear she and her father had seen once when out camping. It was the day before she received her acceptance letter from Hogwarts. 

Hermione and her father were out camping in a lonely part of Wales, when a baby cub wandered into their camp. It was quite unafraid, and walked straight up to Mr. Granger, begging for food. Unfortunately, the cub's mother was also close by, and seeing her cub in the company of humans enraged her. She started charging down the hillside, directly at Hermione's father.

Hermione was still spooked, remembering the events of that afternoon. The bear hadn't wasted any time growling or putting on a display of power, just silently charged, looking murderous. Hermione's accidental magic had saved them. She later remembered rushing over to her father and chanting something under her breath, but she hadn't known what she was saying, or how it helped. 

The bear cub grunted once and walked towards his mother. The mother stopped in mid-charge, licked her cub and walked off into the forest, never to give them any more trouble. Hermione and her father left straight away following the incident, and when they arrived home the next day, her acceptance letter was waiting.   


Thinking about the bear now, she stifled a small giggle. Ignoring the curious stares from her fellow Gryffindors, Hermione tried to concentrate on her transfiguration homework (turning parchment into a quill, then back again), but failed. Her mind was returning to Ron. While he could look positively mutinous defending his family's honor, he only got that she-bear look when Malfoy had insulted Muggle-borns—Hermione in particular. Well, it made sense that he would get defensive about one of his friends. Too bad that he would never think of her as more than a friend—

Hermione forced her thoughts back to her homework. It was really difficult, far more advanced than anything she had tried before. Professor McGonagall had admitted to her that she usually reserved such advanced assignments for her sixth and seventh years. It wasn't part of the regular fifth-year coursework, naturally. Hermione had asked for some extra credit, feeling that the class wasn't challenging enough. 

She wanted to keep her skills razor sharp, because the O.W.L.S. were coming up this year and she meant to take them all. Let Harry and Ron laugh if they would. They wouldn't laugh so hard later, when they came to her begging for help, one or two days before the exams. 

"Things that are closely related are both easier and harder to transfigure than things which are not related," Professor McGonagall had stated, earlier that afternoon. "Transfiguring turtles into teapots is relatively easy, so I use that one for first and second year students. Turtles are similar to teapots in the right ways and dissimilar in the right ways as well. Do you understand?"

Hermione nodded, so the Professor went on.

"When you want to transfigure something—say a parchment, into something that is closely related to it—a quill for example, it is much more difficult to visualize the desired result. This is because the two things are so closely related, that it's hard to tell where the one thing ends and the other begins." She waited for Hermione's response, and was rewarded with a confused look.

"Professor? Quills and parchments are nothing like each other. So then why do you say they're closely related?"

"By reason of use, Miss Granger. Excellent question, as usual. Those particular two objects are used so often together and so infrequently apart, that they have become almost inseparable in most people's minds. If I asked you to say the first word that came to mind when I said 'quill', what would it be?"

"Parchment," Hermione replied, without hesitation. "Ah, I think I begin to see what you mean, Professor McGonagall. This is going to take some time."  


"Take all the time you need," her teacher assured her. "Since it's extra credit, you can just turn it in whenever you finish it, although I'll need it before the O.W.L.S. of course."

Hermione sighed and stuffed a slightly battered piece of parchment that had sprouted wings back into her book-bag. She had somehow managed to bring it to life without meaning to, and now she could hear the muffled sounds of her 40th failure beating its wings against her bag, a futile gesture, since the bag was practically invincible. 

In her third year, Hermione had taken way more classes than she could reasonably handle. Professor McGonagall had given her a time-turner so she could take all the classes that she wanted, but it hadn't done anything to ease the extra load in her book-bag. Things had come to a head that awful day when someone had bumped into her, causing her bag to burst open, spilling her books, ink, and quills everywhere. 

Following that unfortunate incident, Hermione had gone to the library, researching spells that kept her bag strong enough to carry about two tons worth of books (not that even _she_ would carry that many!). It also had a locking charm on it, which prevented anyone from breaking in and stealing her notes, which were quite a popular item, especially the night before exams. Hermione wondered briefly about Malfoy's demonstration in class, and if his notes were popular. She snorted to herself. He probably sold them for ridiculously high prices. A pound of flesh—that would be just like him. 

It wasn't fair! It had been so easy for Malfoy to show off his skills in front of the entire class. Hermione wasn't sure why Professor McGonagall had wanted Malfoy to demonstrate that particular Transfiguration. It was an extra credit project, and as far as she knew, Hermione had been the only one to take it on. Except Malfoy, apparently. Professor McGonagall had probably been trying to embarrass Malfoy for not paying attention in class. It had sure backfired, though. Malfoy was more of a student than Hermione had given him credit for.

Just now, Hermione was done with study. She was a week ahead in all of her classes anyway, except for Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was taking all her concentration to keep up in that class. Professor Lupin had returned to Hogwarts by popular demand of (surprise!) the parents. Lupin had resigned from his position after the knowledge that he was a werewolf became public. He was sure that the parents of the students would hate him and fear for their children's safety. 

Professor Lupin had only agreed to come back when Dumbledore showed him over one hundred fervent letters from various parents who were furious with Dumbledore for 'firing' Lupin. 

Dumbledore had even received a couple of Howlers from an irate Mrs. Weasley who thought mistakenly that Lupin had been fired for being a werewolf. Her children corrected her and she owled Dumbledore with a sheepish apology.

Hermione walked to the Portrait Hole of the Gryffindor common room, and climbed out. Harry and Ron didn't notice her leave, being totally engrossed in a game of chess. Harry was losing, as usual. 

Her feet knew the way to the library well, and Hermione let her thoughts wander until she reached the first staircase. The staircases liked to change frequently, and Hermione had learned from experience to be watchful. If you didn't watch were you were going, you could end up like a smashed bug on the floor below. It was a long way down, and she didn't fancy the idea of falling all that way.

She reached the library with no incident, and automatically walked to her favorite chair, which often served as her thinking spot. In her mind, she went over the letter again. 'Quidditch is a dangerous sport', her anonymous admirer had said. What kind of admirer would threaten her friends? 

She wished she could perform a charm on the note to reveal the writer, but that was impossible. The moment she had finished reading it, the letter had exploded into fine ash, and drifted down to settle on the floor. She noticed Professor McGonagall's disapproving look, but hardly cared because she had been so startled herself. 

Making a letter behave like that was very advanced magic, she knew. In fact, she doubted that it was taught in Hogwarts at all. It felt to her suspiciously like Dark Magic, if for no other reason than the fact that it looked disturbingly like removing evidence. But evidence of what? It was all very confusing……

With a start Hermione looked up and realized that she had fallen asleep. Madam Pince was standing over her, a quizzical expression on the usually sour face. Madam Pince was usually gruff to any student who entered the inner sanctum that was her library. But she had taken to Hermione, because she recognized Hermione's deep love and respect for books, and for learning in general. 

"Miss Granger, I would advise you to get downstairs before they clear away dinner. It's quite late. Also, I'm shutting the library early today to take inventory. Get on with you now, you don't want to miss your dinner." The old, thin woman shooed a slightly flustered Hermione away. Hermione realized that she had been sitting in the library sleeping for over two hours. She scooted into her place at the Gryffindor table just in time to snatch a piece of bread and a glass of pumpkin juice before the house elves magicked the food away.


End file.
